Netherfield: Rogue Dragon: A Pride and Prejudice Variation (Jane Austen's Dragons Book 3)

by Maria Grace

  “Hungry!” The chick screeched, pawing at Collins’ palm. Hopefully his talons were still soft or Collins’ hand might be shredded.

  Such a plaintive, desolate sound. A lump rose in Darcy’s throat. Beside him, Mary began to weep. Did the voice of a young cockatrice induce sorrow the way an adult’s induced terror?

  Bloody hell! That would be the sort of thing Elizabeth would want to know. Damn it all, she should be here!

  Collins’ eyes filled with tears. “I would like to help, but I do not understand.”

  Fitzwilliam edged around the box and nudged Collins with his shoulder. He carefully took the chick into his hands. “The chick is hungry.”

  Mary crowded in and pressed the tray of meat toward Fitzwilliam. With his free, hand he grabbed a handful of slivers and offered one to the chick.

  The baby gobbled it down, flapping its wet wings to shower Fitzwilliam and Collins with egg slime.

  “May I clean you?” Fitzwilliam applied the soft flannel to the baby’s face.

  The chick leaned into his ministrations, crooning.

  Collins slipped from the room.

  Bennet murmured soft encouragements to the chick and Fitzwilliam as he fed it a larger piece. They were in good hands. Best see what Collins was about.

  Collins leaned heavily against the wall just outside the study door, face in his hands.

  “Are you well?” Darcy asked softly.

  Collins gulped several ragged breaths. “The way it looked at me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The creature—the baby. Its eyes. As though it—he—knew exactly what he wanted, needed and how to communicate it. As if I should have understood.” He clasped his hands and extended them toward Darcy. “I would have helped had I understood. The grief! They feel! The creatures, the dragons, they feel, as we do. I never realized. They are not just clever animals.”

  Darcy suppressed the urge to slap his forehead. The bigger issue was that the man was finally grasping the nature of dragons, not that it had taken him this long to accomplish it. Darcy bit his tongue and set aside the first three things he thought to say. “You are absolutely correct.”

  “How easily the colonel managed, cared for the creature, just because he could understand what the chick was saying. It was truly communicating, speaking to him.”

  “You will find it far easier to deal with Longbourn now that you understand.”

  “Yes, yes, you may be quite right.” Collins blotted his eyes with his sleeve. “That is one too, no?” He pointed behind Darcy.

  Darcy looked over his shoulder. Rumblkins spring-hopped toward them.

  “Yes, he is. His kind is called a tatzelwurm. There are more of them who live in the barns at Longbourn. They do not usually live in homes.” Or with Friends who could not actually hear dragons, but now was definitely not the time to try and explain that sort of thing.

  “I believe I may owe it—him—an apology.”

  Darcy crouched and extended a hand toward Rumblkins. “Are you willing to hear Mr. Collins? He has something to say to you.”

  “Why should I listen to him?” Rumblkins turned half his body away from them.

  “Mr. Collins, it would behoove you to present a good will offering, a bit of dried cod from the kitchen perhaps—”

  “Or a dish of cream.” Rumblkins turned toward them and licked his lips.

  “Better yet, a dish of cream would be very welcome.”

  “Yes … yes … of course. Lady Catherine is always more amenable after a few compliments. Why would not a … a dragon be so as well.” Collins trundled down the hall toward the kitchen.

  Darcy dragged his hand down his face. But then again, dealing with Aunt Catherine was not so different from dealing with a dragon. Perhaps she was a good model to use.

  How Elizabeth would laugh to hear that, but she probably would agree. How would he explain the transformation that had just come over Collins? Would she even believe him?

  Rumblkins laid a paw on Darcy’s knee. “She said this was important. I do not know why she left this behind.” With his other paw, he laid a long, dirty glove on Darcy’s knee.

  “She left this somewhere?”

  “No, we found it. In the woods. She thought it was important, but left it at the lair in her apron.”

  He held the glove up by one finger. It did not seem the right shape to be Elizabeth’s. “Whose is this?”

  “A sister’s. I do not remember which.”

  Darcy’s heart thudded hard against his ribs. “I will ask Mary, surely she will know. Thank you very much.” He scratched under Rumblkins’ chin.

  Collins shuffled up with a saucer of cream. He crouched next to Darcy. “What should I do?”

  “Put the saucer down and talk while he takes the cream.” Darcy rose. “Pray listen to him with kindness, Rumblkins. What Dragon Mates know easily is difficult for others to learn.”

  “Mrrow.” Rumblkins glanced from the cream, to Collins, and back to the cream. Apparently his stomach won the conversation. He pressed his nose into the cream.

  “Ah, yes, well then,” Collins straightened his jacket and drew a breath long enough to fuel a very long speech, just as he would have done addressing Lady Catherine. Good thing there was plenty of cream.

  Darcy excused himself and returned to the study.

  Mary leaned against her father’s cluttered desk, watching as Fitzwilliam fed the ravenous chick. “The chick’s name is Earl.”

  Darcy snickered into his hand. “I am not sure if Uncle Matlock will be pleased or not having a chick so named for him.”

  “You think that is the colonel’s intent?”

  “I think it well within the bounds of his sense of humor.”

  Earl had fluffed out as his feather-scales dried. His head, wings, and torso were covered with mottled green-gold down. His serpentine lower half bore soft-looking dark grey scales, wrapped firmly around Fitzwilliam’s wrist. Though his beak and talons had a soft, translucent sheen, they had dried enough to be useful in shredding his meal.

  “Earl is rather cute, all told.” Mary mumbled. “In the way all babies are cute, I suppose.”

  “Cockatrice are not cute—or at least I would not risk telling one that. You would go much farther calling him impressive.” Darcy glanced at Walker. Did he just wink at them?

  “I will remember that.” Mary’s eyes twinkled a little like Elizabeth’s.

  “Rumblkins just brought me this. It was found in the woods. He seemed to think it very important. Would you happen to know to whom it belongs?” He handed the glove to Mary.

  She turned it inside out. “Great heavens! It is Lydia’s!”

  “You must meet Darcy, my young Friend.” Fitzwilliam cradled Earl in the crook of one arm and waved Darcy over with the other. Cait leaned down from the perch to offer Earl another gobbet of meat. He would have to stop eating soon, his belly was distended and his eyelids were drooping.

  Bennet moved aside so Darcy could stand beside Fitzwilliam.

  Huge baby eyes turned on him. “Darcy?”

  “Yes, Earl, I am Darcy. Walker is my Friend.” Darcy stroked Earl’s fluffy head. Perhaps Mary was right. He was cute after all.

  Walker squawked approval from the opposite side of the room.

  Darcy offered a sliver of meat. Earl swallowed it slowly, his head lolling into Fitzwilliam’s chest as he did.

  “I was not sure we would ever get enough food into him.” Fitzwilliam stared at Earl with something between wonder and pride. “I never knew a creature so small could stuff himself that much.”

  “I believe your mother used to say that about you.” Darcy chuckled, twitching his brows just a bit. “I imagine your father will have something to say about his name, though.”

  “I merely offered it. Earl chose to accept it.” Fitzwilliam winked.

  “Tell your father that.” He held the glove toward Fitzwilliam. “You need to see this. Mary says it is Miss Lydia’s. Rumblkins found it in the
woods.”

  “So, she is here?”

  “It is the first real evidence to suggest that she is.”

  Fitzwilliam glanced around for a chair and sat. “Is it torn? Are there signs of violence?”

  “It does not seem so.”

  “Perhaps she is still alive. We must begin searching immediately.”

  “Would it not be wiser to see the maps decontaminated first? I expect the time it would take would be more than amply made up for in the time saved searching.”

  Fitzwilliam glanced down at Earl who snored softly against his chest. “I suppose you are right. I must go back to Netherfield, though.”

  “It would be better for the chick to remain here.” Had Bennet been listening the whole time? Probably. Despite his other physical limitations, his preternatural hearing was still as sharp as ever it was.

  “Come to Netherfield with us. You can watch over him there whilst we fulfil the Order’s business.” Fitzwilliam made that an order, not a suggestion.

  Bennet scowled and opened his mouth—for protest no doubt.

  “There are many book collections there. You can help us identify the volumes that are of particular value.” Darcy nudged Fitzwilliam. Sometimes bribery was more effective than demands.

  Fitzwilliam nodded with just his eyes. “When we have decontaminated the maps, your assistance in deciphering them will be invaluable.”

  “I think he is right, Papa.” Mary and Mr. Collins came up behind Bennet.

  “But Longbourn—”

  “He will be fine, I am sure.” Mary laid a hand on Bennet’s shoulder.

  “With Cait’s help, we will be able to manage.” Collins’ tone was so changed. Who would have thought those words had come from him.

  “They can send for help if there is any problem. I will drive you back myself if necessary.” It must be difficult to put himself in the service of such a man. The things the Blue Order could require!

  “Very well, but only until the chick is past his hatching hunger.” Was Bennet pouting now?

  “Walker, pray would you find Elizabeth and inform her of our plans? I do not think this a good time to surprise her.” That, of course, was an understatement of draconic proportions.

  Walker muttered something about not being a messenger bird, but for his Lady Elizabeth, he would oblige, and flew off

  ∞∞∞

  Elizabeth pulled her shawl tighter over her shoulders as she turned off the garden path. Talia would insist on introducing more hoppers, and her current mood hardly rendered her obliging. The folly was a far better destination. The forest wyrms were unlikely to appear, and she could have quiet for her own thoughts.

  How could she have been so misled? Darcy said he trusted her, yet he would keep such information from her? That was precisely how Papa treated Mama. Of course, he justified it because Mama could not hear dragons, and the Blue Order required secrecy.

  Had the Blue Order instructed Fitzwilliam thus? Did they hope he might use her against Netherfield? It would not be entirely unlike them to do so. How dare they try to manage her like the dragon-deaf! Perhaps Mary’s concerns over the Order’s behavior were very sensible after all.

  How like the military they were, always quick to turn to the sword for an answer. But it was foolish and short-sighted. How much better if all could be made to see reason. To resolve this without bloodshed—why did they have so little faith it could be done?

  Why did Darcy have so little faith in her? And this was the man she was going to marry? How would that ever work? What point in hoping for a marriage of the mind and soul when he would not turn to her with the truth at such a time as this? No, this would be no more than a typical marriage for advantage and connection.

  At least there would be little Pemberley to love. Perhaps that would be enough.

  Elizabeth paused at the folly, her feet too heavy to move. The path continued deeper into the woods behind the structure. Why had she never noticed it before? Perhaps it might lead somewhere useful, and if it did not, that was just as well, too. She needed to spend time away from everyone—man and dragon—lest she lose control and say something very untoward.

  The subtle path proved challenging to follow as it wound into the deep woods and into a rocky terrain studded with rounded hills. How long had it been here and what sort of creature made it? It lacked the typical marks left by larger game. In places the track looked more like scaly slithers than anything else.

  This was the sort of landscape wyrms loved—so many holes for them to hide in and explore. Not just wyrms, other smaller dragons liked it, too. The unique karst landscape meant Hertfordshire hosted an unusually large population of wild dragons compared to the rest of England. Perhaps, there were some who lived here who might help her. Though it was difficult to meet wild dragons, it was possible if one was patient and could manage a proper introduction.

  She scanned a small clearing near the hillside for dragon signs. Those could be slither trails among the rocks, and that shiny bit looked like a lost scale. The skeleton of—well something small and previously furry—lay near a few bushes. Multiple wild dragons might well live here.

  A scraggly tree offered shade to a boulder near the center of the outcropping. She sat there, still and silent. Surely the dragons would smell her. But if she remained non-threatening, their curiosity usually won over their caution, and they would come to investigate. It merely required sufficient patience.

  Her shadow grew steadily longer, and her bones ached from the hard stone perch. Maybe just a little longer, but not much. She needed to leave herself enough time to get back to the house before sunset.

  There, wait! Slithering, the unique sounds of scales over rocks just behind her, approaching with caution. Excellent. All she had to do was be quiet and still and—

  A wyrm shadow appeared! Exactly what she—wait. Why was it growing so very large? Chills coursed down her neck and shoulders. How could a rock wyrm cast such a long—rock wyrms did not have arms!

  She turned very, very slowly.

  The creature was blue. The bluest dragon she had ever seen. Bluer than the blue pa snake she had met at the Order offices. He was the blue of a peacock feather, his back a little darker, his belly a touch lighter.

  He rose up on his tail until he stood eight, maybe ten feet tall. It was difficult to tell for certain while she was seated. A long, squared face sported both a wild blue mane—more hairy than feathery, and a long white whisker mustache at the end of his nose similar to Longbourn’s. Fangs, stained and not at all cared for, poked out just below his nose—not bared to be a threat just yet.

  His huge round eyes glittered bright yellow in the sunshine, well-formed for seeing in near-total darkness. Two long, powerful arms defined where his neck ended and shoulders began, ending in paws that looked more like hands. Four lithe toes, with one opposing the other three like a thumb, bore daunting talons, useful for digging and for dispatching prey. No wonder horses were terrified at the mere scent of a lindwurm. They would stand no chance against one.

  “You call yourself Netherfield, I expect.” She rose on jellied knees. At least she kept her voice level and strong. That was something

  “You are trespassing on my territory.” The gruff, gravelly tone sounded more like a child’s affectation than his real speaking voice. Trying to be intimidating, no doubt.

  “This is not your territory.”

  “I have taken its name. No other dragon claims it. The minor dragons give way to me. It is mine.” He spoke the last three words with particular force, a little spittle flying with each.

  “That may be how it works in France. But here, there are rules about what territory a dragon claims. You have not followed them.”

  “I will have this place.” He slithered closer to tower over her—a particular tendency among males and dragons trying to prove themselves right.

  “It is not impossible—if you work with the Blue Order. Since the proper claimant to this Keep has not been heard from i
n quite some time—”

  “He gave me this land.”

  Is that what “giver” in the painting referred to? “Then you may present your claim—”

  “I hold the land. It is mine. If anyone challenges me, I will hold it, with blood if I must.” His lips pulled back to reveal formidable fangs.

  Good sense demanded she run, or at least back away. But that was also the surest way to trigger a predator’s instincts. “That is not an option. Your attitude places you in grave danger.”

  “I know about the Dragon Slayer. You have a Dragon Hunter under your control. You are a grave danger to me.” He leaned down and blew hot breath in her face. She trembled. This was too much like Longbourn …

  “He is by no means under my control. I cannot fathom where you got such a notion. You are a rational, reasonable creature and this entire matter can be solved by—”

  He swiped at her. Before she could draw breath to scream, she dangled from his paws over the rocky ground. “I will solve it by removing you.”

  Struggling would do no good, but the reflex was too strong to stop. How ridiculous she must appear kicking and twisting in his grasp. “Harming me will not profit you. If you kill me, you will die. If Longbourn does not kill you, the Dragon Hunter and his kin will stop at nothing to do so.”

  “I do not need to kill you, yet. There are other means to try first.” He pressed her to his chest so tightly she could hardly breathe and slithered toward the hills. He ducked to enter a large cave. What little she could see turned into darkness.

  ∞∞∞

  At sunset, a fast-moving storm released its fury upon Darcy in the open curricle just as they pulled up to Netherfield. Surely Elizabeth would greet them with a warm fire and the promise of a hot meal to be served soon. In his mind’s eye, Darcy could see her forgiving smile. No doubt there would be a long discussion to follow, in private of course. But all would soon be well. She would be his Elizabeth once again.

  Nicholls met them at the door, not Elizabeth. Apparently, she was not returned. This was not the sort of weather anyone should be out in, especially not a gentlewoman without even a spencer to protect her from the chill. But Elizabeth had many dragon friends. Surely one of them would be able to offer her shelter from the torrent.